


A Dark Place

by Jamie_Douglas



Category: Lord John Series - Diana Gabaldon, Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drunk Sex, F/M, Family Feels, Gay Sex, Grief/Mourning, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Rough Trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:14:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamie_Douglas/pseuds/Jamie_Douglas
Summary: After Culloden and before Ardsmuir, Lord John Grey was in a very dark place. This story explores how he felt and behaved and how his family and friends tried to help him as he struggled with grief and trauma.
Relationships: Lord John Grey & Hal Grey, Lord John Grey/Hector, Lord John Grey/Original Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34





	1. Better Burn

Lord John Grey sat in a puddle against the wall of the tavern he had just left, muddy water seeping through his breeches. His body was cold but his mind didn’t notice. He took the last swig of ale that was left in the bottle he carried and threw it, watching, emotionless, as the glass shattered against the cobblestones with a crash. A dark shape approached him from the side and Grey fumbled the dagger from his belt and held it out like a flag in front of him. 

“Bugger off,” he added, and the figure shuffled away. 

He kept his frozen fingers curled tightly around the hilt but his eyelids drooped. Through a memory as thick and fuzzy as a wool blanket, he felt Hector’s arms around him, warming him, holding him close. Then everything went black.

*** 

“John!” Someone was shouting at him, shaking him by the shoulders. “Johnny, wake up!” 

He opened his eyes just enough to see a bright red coat sleeve and his brother’s concerned face. 

“Come on now, get up! You can’t stay here all night. What the devil is wrong with you?” Hal pulled Grey to his feet, bracing his younger sibling with a strong arm around his waist. “You’ll catch your death!” 

Death, John thought. What of it? He’d seen enough of it to last a lifetime. Was that the worst that could happen to a man? Hector’s body had been so cold. It was not the warm and loyal friend who had taken him into his confidence, not the kind and gentle lover who had shown him the ways of a secret world. He had meant everything to the teenaged John, and he was gone. Grey rubbed Hector’s ring with his opposite hand, as though he could conjure him up like a genie from a bottle. The action unbalanced him and he staggered. Hal caught him before he fell. 

Melton’s carriage was waiting for him in the street. He hauled John awkwardly into it, climbed in beside him, and shut the door. Glaring at his brother, who was slumped in an unsightly heap on the bench seat, he asked his question again. 

“What is really wrong with you, John? You’ve been gadding about for months—years!—now, acting like there’s no point in living. Why? Was Culloden really that hard on you? All you had to do was finish off a few injured Highlanders—a mercy, when you come to it. I thought of all the tasks I could set for you, that would have been the easiest.” He leaned over and peered at Grey’s face. “Are you still having nightmares?” 

“How d’you know about that?” John slurred. Hal’s face was blurry. 

“I know a great deal more than you think I do.”

Grey opened his eyes a bit wider at this remark. What did that mean? If Hal knew everything, he would surely understand that his little brother’s steady downward slide into a life of depressed, alcohol-soaked decadence was precipitated more by Hector’s death than by the general atrocities of Culloden, though those certainly didn’t help. “Like what?” he ventured boldly. 

“Do you think that no one in the household has noticed your middle-of-the-night murmurings, or your frequent insomnia, or the revolting way your clothes smell when you’ve been out all night? Apparently you have been forgetting to eat again, as well. I thought you’d promised me months ago that you would do better?” 

“Mother?” 

Hal nodded. “And the servants. I asked them to keep me apprised of your…state.” John’s coat was hanging open and Melton studied the slim body beneath it. “You have definitely lost weight again.” He sighed deeply. “I just don’t understand it. Even after Father died, you were not this self-destructive.” 

John’s eyes slid closed again and he leaned his head against the side of the carriage. There was no explanation he could offer. He supposed he should have gotten over Hector’s death by now. Why was he so intent on worrying his family and potentially dragging the Grey name through the mud? As the vehicle bumped along toward home, he tried to shut out any thoughts at all. Life was almost bearable that way. 

Thinking that John had nodded off, Hal gave up. He shook his head in frustration but said nothing else until they reached Benedicta’s house and he was obliged to help his brother out again. He passed Grey off to the footman and was about to make a hasty exit when the lady of the house—the Countess—seemed to appear in front of him out of nowhere. 

“John! Not again!” Getting no reaction from her youngest child, she rounded on his brother. “Hal! What is the meaning of this? I asked you to stop him, not join him!” 

Hal shrugged helplessly. “Took me hours to find him.”

“Is that mud all over his backside? What on earth…” The fine lines on her forehead crinkled up in disgust. 

“I found him outside in a puddle. Mother, why don’t you get back to bed, and I’ll deal with this? No sense in both of us losing sleep. We can discuss the matter in the morning.”

“You’ll stay the night?” 

“If you wish.” Melton, in fact, did not want to stay the night, because he did not want to discuss the matter the following morning. They had spoken to John so many times, had conspired together and with others to try to get him out of his dark mood, through salons and musicales and dinners and horseracing and had even tried to get him married off to several nice young women despite his often unappealing habits, but to no avail. Nothing had helped and Hal was getting tired of trying. John was a grown man—just barely—and if he wanted to destroy himself, there was not much they could do about it, short of having him locked up. But Hal loved his mother, and his brother, and so he nodded resignedly. 

“All right then. I’ll see you both in the morning.” She glanced at John as the footman helped him down the hall, bent her head to Hal, and was gone. 

Melton hurried up behind the retreating men. “Better burn those breeches, I should think.”


	2. Neither Finery Nor Foppery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavily hungover, John ponders what to do next.

Grey shielded his eyes with the back of his hand. The harsh sunlight pouring through his bedroom window was like a knife to his skull. Why hadn’t the shutters been closed? Hal had likely thought it a proper punishment to force him awake at dawn. He reached for his pocket watch on the bedside table and accidentally sent it crashing to the floor. Cursing in German, he rolled over to the side of the bed and scooped the timepiece from the floor. He’d cracked the glass. This was the last thing his father had given him before he died—a gift meant to mark his entry into manhood. Hal had an identical watch. John prized this one possession more than any other, save Hector’s ring. He breathed deeply. It was all right. A cracked glass could be replaced. Through the errant tear that slid down his cheek, he saw that it was not, in fact, dawn. He must have slept despite the sun. 

He sat up warily, holding his head, and began the painful process of dressing. For once, he wished he hadn’t declined his mother’s offer of a personal valet. The fewer people who got that close to him, the better, he’d thought, but now his fingers were shaking as he attempted to fasten the buttons. He pulled his long, thick hair back hastily with a black ribbon and threw open the door with a flourish. He would have to face his mother sometime, and it might as well be now. She was usually breakfasting at this time of the day. He strode into the room, inclined his head to her, and walked over to her chair, bending low to kiss her cheek. The blood rushed to his head in a most unwelcome manner, and he righted himself slowly. “Good morning, Mother.” He smiled broadly at her, having had years of practice in the art of hiding his true feelings. 

“Good morning, John.” 

The deep voice startled him and he looked to the other end of the table. “Hal! I did not see you there. My apologies. Good morning to you.” He offered a low bow, then pulled out a chair, brushing the eager servant away. “Tea, please.” The pot was in the centre of the long table, but he felt incapable of pouring it. The servant was only too happy to oblige. After he had drunk three cups, he looked up to find both his brother and his mother staring at him. He cleared his throat. “I am afraid that I must have come in quite late last night, Mother. I hope I did not disturb you.” 

Benedicta raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember?” 

“I…um…of course. I mean, uh…I hope you were able to get back to sleep.” He looked wildly at Hal, hoping for a clue as to what might have transpired the evening before, but Hal only shook his head sadly. 

“What disturbs me more than my own lost sleep, John dear, is the knowledge that you are not taking care of yourself.” Her eyes were plaintive. “You promised me you would.” 

Grey hung his head in shame. He could not deny it, so he quickly tried to think of a way to forestall the conversation. Grabbing a roll from the basket near his hand, he ripped off a hunk and stuffed it in his mouth. This proved to be a bad idea, as he discovered the second he’d swallowed. Covering his mouth with one hand, he pushed back from the table, knocking the chair over as he stood. His brain told him to run out of the room, but unfortunately his stomach had other ideas. Luckily, the annoyingly attentive servant was right there, holding a pewter basin out to him. John spewed what seemed to be gallons of tea into the bowl as the young man held it, not batting an eyelash though his sleeve was now speckled with vomit.  
The same servant handed him a handkerchief and he wiped his face before turning shakily to the table. “I do apologize. Mother, Hal. Forgive me.” Then he turned and left, leaving his stunned family to stare at his retreating back. 

***

The rest of the day did not fare any better. By the time his head and stomach had healed, he was exhausted and lethargic. But he couldn’t go to bed and face his dreams, nor could he stay at home and face his mother’s disapproval. He sat on a low stone wall by the docks for an hour, just watching the big ships and the little men who ran back and forth to them, scurrying like mice. He couldn’t imagine how they managed to move so fast, to lift so many barrels and packages, when he barely had the energy to think. 

That was another problem—thinking. He didn’t want to think about all the time he was wasting, or all the people he was disappointing. Above all, he didn’t want to think about Hector. And yet he did. Although his memories pained him, they were welcome friends—greatly preferable to the uppity society set his family was always putting him together with. Lord John had no interest in finery or foppery, poetry or theatre at the present. He felt most in tune with the dockworkers and sailors, the men whose families did not expect them back. The men who filled their days with mindless labour and their nights with ale or whisky and anonymous pleasure. 

That decided it. George Everett had shown him the place and he had returned a few times on his own. He would go to Lavender House. The men there had only two expectations of him, one being discretion, and he was sure he could fulfil both tonight. He heaved himself slowly off the wall and began the walk to Barbican Street. As soon as the large house with its twin tubs of lavender on the porch came into view, Grey felt himself relax. 

Once in the door, he headed straight for the library, where a small group of similarly young men were lounging. One man’s throaty laugh silenced abruptly as John entered the room. All eyes were on him, devouring him from top to toe. He knew he was an attractive man, with a leanly muscular build, a strong jaw, and the face of a cherub. War, dissolution, and weight loss had not yet taken away the boyish beauty of his features. His blue eyes were not innocent, however, and when a man approached him with a glass, he smiled. 

“Sherry?” the handsome, dark-haired man asked. 

Grey took the drink, letting his fingers linger a moment too long over the other man’s. “Yes, thank you.” He sipped the sweet liquid, feeling its warmth light him from lips to belly. Their eyes locked, and no more words were necessary. John walked to the door, looking back over his shoulder once, to make certain that the handsome stranger was following.


	3. No Reply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will an encounter with an anonymous stranger fill the void in John's heart?

The room was warm. Someone had thoughtfully lit a fire in the hearth that sat quite dangerously close to the one narrow bed. The dark-haired man closed and locked the door and walked up to Grey, leaving only inches between their bodies. “I’m Edward. What should I call you?” 

“John.” Grey loosened the constrictive materials around his throat and reached for the other man’s coat buttons. Soon, they had nothing but their breeches and shirts on. Edward, an unusually tall man, bent down to kiss John, whose slightly sticky lips tasted of sweet sherry. Something about Edward reminded Grey of Hector, though he didn’t know why. He decided to imagine his dead lover was there now. Hector was the one whose strong arms tightened around him, the one whose tongue was probing insistently in his mouth. 

Hector pulled the billowy shirt up over John’s head, did the same with his own, and then pressed his hard-muscled chest against the younger man’s bare skin. His warm hands smoothed over John’s back, sending a shiver of pleasure and anticipation down his spine. Hector’s lips moved to John’s neck and throat, then down to his right nipple. Their stiff cocks brushed against each other and Hector reached down, enclosing them both in one hand and stroking gently. John felt his body go limp and his knees weaken. His lover had much to teach him. Somehow they moved over to the bed and fell onto it, Hector laying John down gently by his shoulders. 

With his eyes closed and his mind in the past, Grey wasn’t fully aware of what was happening in the present, but he felt Edward’s hands on his knees and allowed them to be pushed up. When a slippery finger pushed into his arse, he welcomed it. Yes, Hector, he thought. A masculine weight leaned into him and he groaned in a combination of pleasure and pain as a prick much thicker than Hector’s forced itself inside him. His eyes flew open. 

“No!” He shoved the man with both hands on his chest, freeing himself from the strange body. 

“What’s the matter?” Edward asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and studying Grey curiously. 

“N-nothing. I just… I don’t like…” Embarrassed, John looked down at his hands.

Edward sniffed. “You might have told me that before I did it.” 

“My apologies.” John took a deep breath. “I thought I could. It’s been a few years…”

“Since you were with a man?” The dark-haired stranger placed a hand on Grey’s chest, caressing it lightly. 

John shook his head. “No, I have been with… many men. I just prefer it the other way round.”

“Oh?” Edward kissed John’s shoulder as his hand wandered down. “Why is that, do you suppose?”

“A bad memory.” 

Edward sat up. “Oh!” He nodded sympathetically. “Let’s trade places, then. I don’t mind.” 

Grey was feeling down. His idea to relive a moment with his beloved Hector had not worked at all, and he hated to look like a fool. He didn’t want his memories of that horrid night in Scotland to intrude on this evening’s escapism. He glanced around the room. 

His new friend saw John’s hesitation. “I could get us a bottle of something, if you like.”

“Yes. Yes, please.” 

Edward threw on his breeches and shirt and closed the door softly behind him. Grey leaned back onto the pillows and sighed. “I miss you so much,” he whispered to the ceiling. 

Minutes later, Edward returned, holding a bottle of wine and two goblets. John gulped down two glasses, one after the other, barely tasting them. His mind became fuzzier and the man in front of him looked good again. “Take those off,” he demanded, pointing at Edward’s clothes. 

“Like that, is it?” the man smiled. 

“It is now.”

“As you wish, m’lord.” 

John’s stomach gave a jump. He hadn’t given his full name or title. He laughed, acknowledging the joke. Edward removed his clothing quickly and rejoined Grey on the bed. 

John rolled on top of him and plunged his tongue deep into the other man’s mouth. They both tasted of wine now. Reaching to the bedside table, he dipped his fingers into his wine glass and dripped the burgundy liquid down Edward’s chest and belly, watching it soak into his dark body hair. Then he drizzled a few drops onto his partner’s hard cock, bent his head, and licked them up. Edward sucked in a breath and bucked his hips toward John’s face. John closed his hot lips around him and enjoyed the meal until his own prick was stiff and throbbing. 

Then he threw Edward’s legs over his shoulders and leaned forward, sliding a dampened finger inside his muscular rear. He didn’t want to wait any longer, and by the way the other man was grasping John’s back and pulling him close, neither did he. Grey lined his cock up to Edward’s inviting arse and let his weight carry him in. The next few minutes were a wine-soaked blur of grunts, pants, and thrusts. The fire licked lights and shadows across John’s skin as he drove into his prey. Finally, his mind was clear of all thoughts and images but the delectable entertainment before him. The tightness gripped him, milked his prick until he cried out, emptying himself into that beautiful ass. He didn’t even realize that Edward was stroking himself until he collapsed on top of him and felt the thick wetness against his middle. 

A pair of full lips kissed his forehead and then he pulled out and rolled off onto his back. He said nothing, just lay there breathing in the silence, feeling himself melt into the mattress. A great emptiness filled the room. Then the bed moved as Edward got up, cleaned himself off, and began to dress. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, John.” The raven-haired stranger buttoned up his coat and turned to go. He looked back once, expecting a reply, but none came.


	4. A Walk by the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wonders what to do with his day.

John woke in the night, shivering. His nightshirt was damp with sweat but he was cold inside and out. The dream had come again—the one that he dreaded most. Every time he closed his eyes, the fear of it kept him awake long after he should have drifted off into a peaceful slumber. The images were seared into his mind even now: a gloomy, rainy grey battlefield, sprinkled with crimson; Hal’s voice, sounding far-off and unreal, calling to him; and the lifeless body before him, its slashed throat white and gaping, no longer gushing red but seeming to scream at him like an open mouth unable to form words. He fell onto the corpse, grasped the man’s face between shaking hands, and pressed white lips to blue. Hector, Hector, my love, why did it have to be you? 

He shook himself, breathed deeply through his nose, and swung his bare legs over the side of the bed. There would be no more sleep for him tonight. 

***  
At dawn, he struggled into his clothing and snuck quickly past the breakfast room. Shaking his head at the open-mouthed servant who came after him, he slid out the door before anyone could ask him a thing. 

The sun was just coming up, sharing the sky with a pale full moon. It was that liminal time of day when the drunks still out from the night before were lurching off to bed and the dockworkers were just heading off to start their day. Lord John was conspicuous, walking down the cobbles in his fine clothes and hat, but as usual, he didn’t care. Let someone try to rob him—his trusty dagger, concealed in his belt, would soon put a stop to it. In a way, he almost wanted to be beaten and left in the gutter. Why should he be alive to enjoy this sunrise, to return home at night to fine silks and linens, when men lay rotting in the ground? One man in particular. 

He had no plan for what he would do with his day. He only knew that he couldn’t face his family’s judgement, their disappointment again. Perhaps he would sleep at the Beefsteak tonight. The idea of sleep tantalized him: just like Tantalus, he was unable to reach his desire, though he could get so near to it, he could see it. He was beyond tired, and his head ached. He found himself shuffling along by the river’s edge, his feet too heavy to lift. The muddy brown water drew him to it and he looked beyond the various vessels to the opposite side. Maybe what he really needed was to get away—leave London for a while. Where could he go? Paris maybe, or Rome. Not Scotland. That would only remind him…of so many unfortunate things. Still vaguely pondering his future, he realized with a start that he was knee-deep in the river. He waded out a bit farther, suddenly wondering what it would feel like to float with all his clothes on. 

A shout from behind him made him turn around. A labourer was gesturing at him. Grey couldn’t make out what he was saying and chose to ignore him. He turned back to the river and walked on until the sloshing waves were at his waist. Moments later, he felt a pair of rough, strong arms around him, hauling him backwards. He decided not to struggle. His legs momentarily floated as he was dragged toward land. The man set him down on the muddy bank and bowed to him. 

Water dripped from Grey’s coat sleeves as he wiped his face and checked that his hat was still there. His shins were cold and wet, the stockings soaked through. The soft leather of his boots had turned a darker brown. “What did you do that for?” he asked, not really looking at his saviour. 

“I thought you was going to drown, m’lud,” came the gruff reply. 

“I see.”

“Were you? Trying to drown yourself? M’lord?” 

John looked up. “No, I was just…” The young man had short, dirty-blond hair that curled around his ears. His features were large and sunbaked, but pleasant enough. A two-day beard scratched over the lower half of his face. His ragged shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing two meaty, muscular arms. 

“Just what, sir?”

“I just thought… I don’t know.” Maybe he had wanted to float away on the Thames forever. He couldn’t recall now what had possessed him to walk into it. Some kind of biblical cleansing ritual, perhaps? As if soiling himself in the polluted waters of the nation’s largest city could possibly erase the past. 

The young man was staring at him, and Grey finally remembered his manners. He dug into his change purse. “Here, for your trouble.” He held some coins out and the man came forward, but didn’t take them. 

He shook his head. “Thanks anyway, sir, but I was only trying to help.” He stood awkwardly near Grey, not meeting his eyes. 

“Would you care to sit with me a while?” John asked, patting the ground beside him. “What is your name?” 

“Curtis.” He sat about four feet away from Grey, not so far as to seem rude but not close enough to raise suspicion. 

John looked him over, squinting his eyes against the sun. “Curtis. Is that your first name or your surname?” 

“First, though it was my grandmother’s surname.” Curtis hesitated, obviously wanting to know the name of the man he’d just “rescued” but not wanting to seem impertinent by asking. 

Grey removed his sopping glove and held out his hand. “Lord John Grey.” 

Surprised, Curtis took the soft, elegant hand in his own coarse, calloused mitt and squeezed firmly. “Is there anything else I can do for you, m’lord?” His hazel eyes bore into John’s. 

John swallowed. He kept his hand where it was and squeezed back. “Such as…?”

“You tell me, m’lord.” Curtis’s face was giving nothing away.

Grey was perplexed. Was he getting his signals confused, or was young Curtis suggesting something? He was as butch as a working-class Englishman could be, but of course that meant nothing. John decided to try his luck. “Now that you mention it, I am rather…er…” He gestured to his wet clothing. “Do you know a place nearby where I might dry off?” 

The young ruffian gave a slight smile. “Of course. If you’ll follow me, m’lord.” He stood up smartly, still holding onto the lord, and pulled Grey to his feet. 

John still didn’t know if Curtis was hinting at a possible liaison or just being helpful in the hopes of some financial reward, but he went with him anyway. Curtis led him to a small outbuilding farther down the riverbank, opened a door, and ushered his guest inside. A small iron stove gave off a radius of heat and Grey sat on a stool within it. He pulled off his left boot, and reached for his stocking. 

“I can do that for you, m’lord.” Curtis knelt at his feet and looked up at him. “If you like.” 

So he hadn’t imagined it, then. Grey nodded, smiling reassuringly. This man surely knew that if a nobleman accused him of perversion, his life would be forfeit. It would be up to John to make the next move. He sighed deeply as Curtis peeled off his stockings, grabbed a mostly-clean rag from a hook on the wall and rubbed his wet legs dry. Stretched out in front of the stove, Grey’s limbs soon warmed. His breeches and smallclothes were still quite damp, however. “Does that door lock?” he asked, casually. 

Curtis licked his lips like a fox peering into a henhouse. “Yes, m’lord. Would you like me to lock it now?” 

“Please. I’m afraid I’ll need to dry out the rest of my clothing, and I wouldn’t want to startle anyone coming in.” He slowly unbuttoned his coat and hung it on a peg, removed his belt and dagger, and placed the latter within reach. 

Curtis glanced at the dagger, then drew the bolt across the wooden door and came to stand next to John. Grey unfastened his flies and pulled his breeches off. Curtis took them and hung them near the stove, then reached his arms out. John walked into the blond’s wide embrace, placing a hand on his broad chest. Curtis wrapped his arms around John and kissed him, the pressure of his lips growing more urgent by the second. Grey felt a thrill of fear shoot up his back, realizing he was locked in a shack with a man clearly much bigger, stronger, and rougher than he. The feeling only made him harder. 

Not wasting any words, the labourer pulled Grey’s shorts down with one swift yank and closed his gigantic fist around John’s cock. 

“Um… Are you going to take your clothes off?” John panted. He was still wearing his shirt, but when Curtis tore his own shirt from his breast and threw it on the floor, John did likewise. They came together again, chest to chest, and tangled their tongues in each other’s mouths. “And those?” He nodded toward the big man’s bottom half. Within seconds, Curtis was pressing his naked body against John’s. Hands travelled down, stubbly chins scraped against each other, and hungry teeth nipped at wet lips as the two men explored their new territory. The blond was somewhat clumsy and unmannered and stank of sweat. Grey loved it all. 

“I’m just a bit o’ rough to you, ain’t I?” Curtis whispered in John’s ear as his hands gripped John’s arse. 

“Well, yes.” He’d always believed in being honest, when it was safe to do so.

“I’ll try to oblige, then.” He grabbed Grey by the shoulders and spun him around.

“Wait, no.” John turned himself back around. He used the most authoritative, aristocratic voice he could summon and was happy to hear no tremor in it. “You turn around.” He pushed Curtis toward the wall and the blond man bent over, bracing his hands on the wood in front of him to steady himself. Grey crouched down behind him, spread the man’s cheeks, and teased his hole with his tongue. Curtis made a sound that might have been “Oh, yes,” and John inserted a finger. After a bit more licking and prodding, he took his throbbing cock in his hand and pointed it at Curtis’s muscular arse. It slid in smoothly, and Grey had a momentary panic considering just how many men had likely been privy to this particular location. Then he closed his eyes and forgot about everything but the hot pleasure enclosing his most sensitive organ. 

“Harder,” Curtis instructed over his shoulder. 

Grey’s thrusts were quick and deep. His fingers dug into the other man’s hips as they slammed backward into him. Curtis grunted like a pig each time Grey drove into him, and John made a game of deliberately trying to make him grunt louder and longer each time. Eventually, he could hold back no longer and panted heavily as he spilled his seed into the blond. 

John felt he shouldn’t leave until the other man had had his own satisfaction, but he wasn’t about to let Curtis take him. He separated himself from the big man’s body and reached his hand down to fondle his balls. 

“Give us a suck, eh?” Curtis encouraged.

John frowned. Swiving a dirty labourer was one thing, but taking him in his mouth was quite another. He tried not to make his tone sound rude. “Do you have anything in here to wash with?” 

Curtis guffawed loudly and turned to face Grey. “You know you just had your tongue in my arse, right?” John did not reply. “All right, I’ll wash it.” He walked naked to the far side of the building, poured some murky water from a pitcher into a bowl, took a rag from the table, and began to scrub. Grey knew the water from the Thames got its colour from the silt in the riverbed, and hoped it was clean enough. 

When Curtis returned to their warm spot by the stove, John sat on the stool and beckoned him over. The hefty blond stood in front of him and John wrapped his hand around the thickest cock he’d ever seen. He flicked his tongue over the tip experimentally, then crammed the whole thing into his mouth. He sucked it as hard as he could manage, given its girth, and Curtis responded with a grateful sigh. It didn’t take long before his new friend pulled away from John’s mouth and promptly spurted all over his own hand and stomach. Grey was glad to have been spared, yet some part of him would have relished a mouthful of this charming brute. 

After he’d cleaned himself off, Curtis touched the clothes hanging by the stove. “Seem dry.” He walked back to John, bent down and kissed him. “Are you done with me, m’lord?” 

John smiled. “Much as I’d love to have another go, I seem to be having trouble keeping my eyes open. Didn’t sleep much last night.” 

Curtis examined him curiously. “Sure you’re all right? I mean, you ain’t gonna walk into the river again, are you?” 

Grey stood up and reached for his clothes. “No. I promise.” He slipped into his shirt and breeches but fumbled with his coat buttons.

“ ‘Ere, let me,” Curtis said. He buttoned him up so he looked like a lord again, despite his messy hair and the rosy blush on his cheeks, then picked Grey’s dagger up off the floor. 

For a split second, John wondered if he was about to be stabbed, but Curtis held the blade out to him and he took it, tucking it into his belt. “Thank you.” 

Once the bolt was lifted and the door was opened for him, Grey looked back. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” He felt sad, like he’d used the man and offered him little in return. He dug into his purse.

Curtis shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I owe you for helping me. Not for… I didn’t mean to insult you.” 

“I only wanted to see you didn’t kill yourself.” He held the door open wider. “See you around.”


	5. Making Sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John winds up at the Beefsteak and wastes the day getting horribly drunk.

Grey wandered around the city for a while and finally ended up at the Beefsteak. He had no appetite but ordered the full luncheon anyway. He picked at his food for hours, drinking glass after glass of wine, followed by brandy. Members came and went around him, some nodding hello and some openly gawking at the young lord who was so drunk he could barely keep his chin up. By early evening, he was propping his head in his hands to avoid falling face-first onto the table. 

Just as John was served a pudding that he apparently had asked for but had no intention of eating, Hal strode into the dining room and sat down across from him. “I think you’ve had quite enough for today.” 

“Pudding?” Grey pushed the dish toward his brother, then signalled to the nearest server for a refill of his glass. 

“John, you are making a spectacle of yourself. I was sent word that you were here. Don’t you think it’s time to go home?”

In lieu of a reply, Grey downed his new drink in one gulp, and belched loudly. “Pardon me.” 

“You know what? You are perfectly right. You should not go home in this condition. Our mother is already worried enough about you. I’ll get you a room here. But first, some coffee.” Hal nodded to a young man who was standing politely nearby. 

When the coffee came, Grey’s hand shook so badly that he slopped the brown liquid all down the front of his shirt. 

“Would you like us to wash that for you, my lord?” the same young servant inquired, handing him a large handkerchief and a fresh cup. 

John waved him away impatiently. “Just bring me another bottle.” 

“No.” Hal’s tone was firm. Although he was looking at John, not the server, the young man nodded and hurried away. “I’ll take you to your room now, John. Come on.” He stood up and waited for John to follow. 

Grey sighed, rolled his eyes, and pushed his chair back, knocking it over as he stood. “Lead on, Macduff.” 

The room was small but comfortably furnished, and Hal sat on an armchair as John clumsily got out of his coat and laid down on the bed. He waited until he could hear soft snores before exiting the room and making for the one next door. 

He hadn’t told John, but he planned to spend the night as well, just in case he was needed. The last thing the Grey family needed was more rumour and speculation. They already had enough scandals to last a lifetime. It was still early, so Hal sat on his bed reading a newspaper to pass the time. A couple of hours later, he heard a noise like muffled talking coming through the wall. 

The murmurs became shouts, and then a piercing scream. Hal rushed into his brother’s room, breaking the door open with his shoulder. Grey was thrashing around in his bed, eyes closed. He was alone. Hal stood beside the bed and shook him by the shoulder. “John! John, wake up!” 

Grey’s eyes opened. Out of breath, he tried to focus. “Hal?” 

“You were having a dream. It’s all right now.” 

John wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “My apologies if I woke you.” His mouth felt thick and fuzzy. 

Hal sat on the edge of the bed. “What happened, Johnny? What happened to you in Scotland?”

“N-nothing.” 

“Don’t tell me that. I know it was more than Hector’s death. You were so… different. Distant. The first few weeks after Culloden, you had a hard time of it, I know. I saw you crying, though I pretended not to. But then, all of a sudden, the tears were gone. It was like… you didn’t have any emotions anymore. Except fear. At night, I would hear you, just like tonight. The nightmares, Johnny. What are they about?” 

John swallowed. “Sometimes they're about… Culloden. The dead men on the battlefield, my friends. Hector.” 

“And sometimes?” Hal prodded. 

John shook his head. 

“Johnny, tell me. Why won’t you? I want to know what happened to change you. You were a boy one minute, and then you were a young man, full of hope and dreams. And then… what are you now? A shell of a man, kept afloat on a sea of alcohol. I shudder to think where you go every day. Something changed you. What was it?”

“You don’t want to know. Let’s just say I realized that men can either be victims or aggressors, controlled or controlling. We can’t be both, and there’s nothing in between.” 

“You don’t really believe that, John.”

“Don’t I?” 

“No gentleman does.” 

“I don’t know what I am.” He scratched at a spot on his forearm, digging his nails into the flesh. 

“In your sleep, you always shout ‘No’—what are you trying to stop?” Hal peered at him, trying, but failing, to make eye contact. 

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. There’s no need for you to worry about it.” 

“Clearly there is. Who made you a victim?” 

John looked up at his brother, startled. 

“Someone did something to you in Scotland. What was it? I won’t leave until you tell me.” 

Hal was a very stubborn man. So was Grey, but he was also very tired—tired from the effort of hiding his feelings. He would not reveal his true nature to Hal, but maybe he didn’t need to. He pulled himself to a sitting position. “I was attacked, a few months after Culloden. I was alone at night and I was unprepared.”

“Attacked? Set upon? I don’t recall you saying anything at the time. Why would you not have told me then? I don’t remember you looking terribly injured.” 

“I was ashamed. I didn’t want to admit that someone had… overpowered me.” 

“I see. So your pride kept you silent. Still… why would anyone attack you? A Scot, you mean? As revenge for Culloden?”

“Perhaps.” 

“Did you not fight back?”

“Of course I bloody did!” John’s voice rose with his anger. “But he had me pinned down! What was I to do?” 

“Pinned down?” Hal studied his brother’s face. John’s cheeks were suffused with red. He didn’t normally blush from anger. Hal was not as clever as John, but he was clever, all the same. “What did he do when he had you pinned down?” 

Grey shook his head again. 

“I mean it, John. I’m not leaving until you tell me.” 

“I do not wish to discuss it.” 

Tears were welling in Grey’s eyes, and Hal could see them shining in the candlelight. He reached out and placed his hand over John’s. A drop fell before Grey could stop it. 

“Dear God,” Hal whispered. “He had you.” It wasn’t a question. Suddenly, everything made sense—the nightmares, the drinking, the altered behaviour, and his brother’s reluctance to explain any of it. At first, he’d wondered if John had harboured feelings for Hector that went beyond the bounds of friendship. His reaction to the soldier’s death had been far from typical. But this revelation, this was clear. 

Grey laid his other hand over Hal’s. “So you see,” he said slowly, looking down at their hands, “I am a damaged man—not a man at all, really.” 

Hal was alarmed by this thought. “Because you were sodomised?” 

John took his hand away. His voice was cold. “Because I was taken against my will.” 

“We’ve all been bested by someone at one time or another. How often have you held the tip of your foil to my throat?” Hal attempted a smile. 

Grey did not take the bait. “That is not the same at all.” 

The older man became serious again. “I’m sorry, Johnny. I had no idea. I wish I could have protected you—I’m your older brother. I should have. But please, it was a long time ago, and it is no reflection on your value as a man.” 

“I know I should have gotten over it, over everything, by now. I know I’ve let you down.” The words caught in John’s throat. He would not let Hal see him cry. 

“There is a difference between disappointment and concern, little brother. Mother and I are worried for you, that’s all. Will you please try to look after yourself a little better? For our sakes?” 

John nodded helplessly. 

Hal continued. “And try to stop thinking about… it. It doesn’t do to dwell on violent events. Surely, as a soldier, you must know that.” 

Grey lifted a hand to his aching head. “I’ll try.”


	6. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning, John finds another way to get into trouble.

Both men slept fitfully for the remainder of the night. In the morning, they met in the dining room once again. Hal was buttering thick slices of toast, but John’s stomach turned at the thought of food. 

“Sit down,” Hal urged. “Have some coffee at least.” He waved the server over. 

“A bottle of ale, please, and a pot of tea.” Grey saw his brother’s disapproving look. “Bit of the hair of the dog and I’ll be right as rain,” he assured him. 

“John, about last night…”

“What about it?”

“You were quite drunk. Do you recall our conversation?” 

“Yes. And as I said then, I don’t wish to discuss it.”

“All right.” Hal picked up his butter knife again. The matter was closed. 

Once his belly was full of restorative liquids, Grey took his leave of Hal. “Will we see you at dinner?”

“Oh, you’re planning to stay at home for once, are you? Good. No, after last night, I think I’d better have dinner with Minnie. You keep Mother company and be a good lad, will you?”

“I’m not a lad anymore.” 

“Don’t act like one then.” 

On his way out of the club, John literally ran into another member on his way in. “Oswald,” Grey nodded politely, though he secretly detested the arrogant earl. 

“Lord John! I hear your brother had to mind you last night. Doesn’t Melton have better things to do? Maybe he should hire a nurse to look after you,” Oswald taunted. 

Without thinking, Grey raised his right arm and took a swing at the irritating man. 

Affronted, Oswald stepped back, out of reach. “Why don’t you challenge me like a gentleman, instead of a pouting little boy?”

“I would, if you were a gentleman.” 

His next punch struck home—a solid blow against Oswald’s cheek. The earl lurched backward but steadied himself, just in time to see Grey’s fist coming at him again. With no time to react, Oswald didn’t have a chance. He crumpled onto the floor and John crouched over him, hitting him again and again, watching the blood flow freely from his opponent’s nose. The smell of it, tangy and metallic, excited him. 

“Stop it!” Hal had heard the commotion and, with a small assortment of staff and other members, came running. He threw himself onto Grey and tore his arms away from the prone earl. “I insist that you get up this instant! What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he hissed into John’s ear. “This is shameful behaviour! Do you want to be thrown out of the club?”

John staggered to his feet, wiping his bloodied knuckles on his breeches. “I don’t care.”

Hal’s grip on his brother’s arm tightened. “I know you don’t care what happens to you, but what about me? Do you think I want to come back here, after you do something like this?”

“He insulted me.” 

“Oh, get over yourself, man!” Hal shook his head, disgusted. He turned to the injured earl, who was being helped up by two members he didn’t recognise. “My apologies, sir. My brother is not well.” 

“Your brother is a drunken ass. You’d best get him in hand, Melton, or he’ll find himself missing some teeth next time.” Oswald pointed at Grey. “You! If you’d like to continue this, I’ll be happy to set a time and place for a proper duel.” 

John opened his mouth but Hal stepped in front of him. “He’s not going to challenge you. As I said, he’s not been well. Is there anything we can do to make up for your…inconvenience?” 

Oswald sniffed. “I do not need money or favours from the likes of the Greys. Just watch your back, both of you.” He walked out of the club, holding a bunch of bloodied handkerchiefs to his nose. 

The crowd began to disperse, sensing that the brothers were not in a mood to regale them with a story. One acquaintance who knew them both shouted as he left, “Good for you, Grey! I’d beat that piss-ant myself if I didn’t think he’d cry to his father about it.” 

Oswald’s father was a powerful man in political circles. Hal sighed heavily. Once he was sure that Oswald and his friends had gone, he hustled John out of the building and noticed that his hands were trembling. “You’ve got to control yourself, John. You know you can’t react that way. It’s ungentlemanly. I’ve never known you to be so violent before.”

John shrugged but said nothing. 

Hal grabbed a fistful of his brother’s coat. “I am quite serious. I’ve been worried that you’re going to get yourself killed. Now I’m not only worried about that, but also about the possibility that you might end up killing someone else. If you can’t discipline yourself--”

“What?” John sneered, brushing Hal’s hand away. “You’ll do it for me? How? Are you going to lock me in my room and station guards outside the door so I can’t escape?” 

“That sounds like an excellent idea. But I will give you one last chance. Go home and stay there, like you said you would. I’ll check in with you later.” His eyes were daggers. “Can I trust you to do that, John?” 

Chastened, Grey hung his head. “Yes. I am sorry, Hal. They won’t blame you. I’ll apologize to the manager.” 

“Later. Now go home.” 

***

Lord John did go home. He spent a quiet day reading a French novel in his father’s library, nursing his head with tea and toast. When his mother came in to speak to him, he hid his knuckles under the book in his lap. 

“It is good to see you home and relaxed, John. You’ve been keeping such late hours recently. You should really eat more than that, though.” She nodded to the little table that held his tray of refreshments. “I have heard that porridge is good for the stomach after a night out.” 

He looked up at her. 

“Oh, yes, I know when you’ve had too much to drink, dear. Do you think I don’t notice? Your eyes get all washed out like the sky on an overcast day and you don’t take as much care with your hair.” 

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

“I’ll get cook to fix you a bowl, shall I?” 

She sounded so hopeful that he couldn’t refuse. When the porridge arrived, he shoveled it in, finding to his surprise that he was actually quite ravenous. 

Benedicta smiled at him. “There now, that’s better. Keep reading your novel and I shall see you at dinner.” 

As he sat among the scent of leather and the shelves of books, most of which he had personally read multiple times, John silently promised to do better.

***

Once dinner was over with, however, he found himself growing restless again. He’d refused any wine during the meal but snuck some from the parlour later. It was getting harder and harder to keep his promise. His knuckles burned red with the desire to hit something again. He wondered what Hal thought of him now. He likely thought of him as a bumbling child who needed to be protected. Grey rebelled against the idea. He felt like a man, though definitely a flawed one. A man needed action. What could he do that he hadn’t already done a hundred times, though? Besides walking into the river again or assaulting another unsuspecting nobleman. Whatever he did, he would do it because he chose to. He would not be cooped up in his mother’s house any longer. 

Lord John pulled on his coat and opened the door.


	7. Taking Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What delights may lay in store for Lord John at Lavender House?

He hadn’t meant to go there again, but Grey found himself walking up the steps of Lavender House late that night. The proprietor, Dickie Caswell, recognised him and bowed politely as he came through the door. “Lord John.” 

John returned the bow but looked away, not wanting to encourage conversation with the disgusting little man. As he had the last time, he went straight to the library, hoping to find there something—or someone—that would help him to drown his sorrows in a mixture of wine and sweat. He was disappointed, therefore, to find no one. The room was empty. There was a fire in the hearth, though, and a bottle of something on the sideboard. He poured himself a glass and sat by the fire, getting lonelier and drunker by the minute. Soon feeling hot in the stuffy room, he pulled at the cravat around his neck, stuffing it into his coat pocket. He rose once to refill his glass, then returned to the comfortable armchair and began to nod off. 

***

“He’s a pretty one!” 

A bony finger was poking John in the chest. He opened his eyes and reached for his sword, forgetting that he hadn’t worn it out. He wasn’t in uniform, after all. He had his dagger, though. A masculine face was peering at him, inches from his nose.

“Bugger off,” he mumbled.

Three men stood near him and at this, they burst out laughing. The closest one, who had long, brown hair tied back in a red bow, laid a hand on John’s knee. “Come with us, darling boy. We’ll cheer you up.” He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, taken by the arm, and led out of the room. As he walked past the sideboard, he grabbed the bottle and lifted it to his lips. 

Upstairs, the brown-haired man pushed him gently into a room. The other two men followed and closed the door behind them. Grey looked around, trying to make sense of the situation. One of the men was short and blond. The third was dark-haired and swarthy. All three of them were staring at him as though he was the first course at a feast and they hadn’t eaten for weeks. He took another swig from the bottle. 

“May I have some of that?” Red Bow asked. 

John held the bottle out to him. The stranger took a sip and passed the bottle to his friends. 

“We haven’t seen you here before,” the man continued. “You aren’t… new, are you?”

Grey wasn’t sure what he meant by that. All of the men looked to be a good ten years older than he. He shrugged. “I’ve been here before. I’m not a virgin.” 

The image of a white-gowned maiden set them laughing again. The short blond man came closer, put both hands on either side of John’s face, and kissed him soundly on the lips. “Don’t worry, Virginia. We’ll take good care of you.” 

John swiped the man’s hands away. “I don’t need taking care of.” 

“Well, well. Even better.” Blondie began to unbutton Grey’s coat, but John stopped him by reaching for Blondie’s crotch. “Oh! He’s a live one, boys!” 

Red Bow, who had been divesting himself of his clothing since they entered the room, walked naked to his dark-haired friend and helped him off with his shirt. John watched them hungrily, eyeing the darker man's broad, hairy chest, his hand groping for Blondie’s prick. The blond man unbuttoned his breeches and pushed them down, giving Grey easy access. He stroked Blondie’s cock into stone as his eyes roamed over the darker pair. They were both naked now, and their hands were all over each other. They were in good shape for their age, which John guessed to be early thirties—definitely not young. Red Bow suddenly dropped to his knees and took Dark Hair’s prick into his mouth. 

Grey had never done anything like this before. He’d had a succession of men, most of them strangers, it was true, but never more than one at a time. That familiar, nagging fear crept slowly up his spine, but the blood rushed to his groin, causing his cock to throb with lust, and he brushed the doubts aside. Letting go of Blondie, he undressed himself, feeling proud when the other man studied his slim, firm body with open desire. Soon, they were both as naked as the others. Blondie let the younger man take the lead. Grey sat on the bed and Blondie squatted in front of him. He sucked gently on John’s balls and licked his stiff prick several times before finally closing his lips around it and sucking eagerly. John closed his eyes and didn’t open them again until he felt something warm and slightly wet press against his own lips. Red Bow was trying to push his cock in between them. John opened wide. Dark Hair stood in the corner, watching. 

A few minutes later, Blondie stood up to stretch his legs. “Do you want me?” he asked Grey teasingly, half-turning to wave his tight arse at him. 

John pushed Red Bow away with a hand against his hip. “Yes.” 

Blondie had a bottle of oil in his hand—it must have been in his pocket. He wet his fingers with the oil and reached behind himself, then backed up to the bed, hovering over Grey’s lap. John guided his cock into the offered arse as it lowered onto him. He held the man’s hips and kissed his neck as they fucked, watching the other couple. 

Dark Hair had Red Bow bent over against the wall. He was driving hard into him, and Red Bow was groaning—with pleasure or pain, John couldn’t tell. He just knew there was something about the dark-haired man—something that attracted and repelled him. He stroked Blondie’s cock as he thrust into him, but his eyes were on Dark Hair. When the mysterious man came, jerking and shuddering and pushing Red Bow further into the wall, John came too, grunting in surprise. 

***

They took a break to pass around the bottle again, and Grey felt himself losing control of his faculties. He knew he should stop drinking, but he didn’t. His head was swimming. He fell onto the bed to rest for just a minute. 

***

When he came to, Dark Hair was on top of him, licking his nipples. John was afraid. And aroused. He couldn’t decide which feeling was foremost in his mind, probably because his mind was so muddled. He had no idea where his dagger was now. He could throw the man off—he wasn’t much bigger than Grey and was probably slower, at least when Grey was sober. But he laid there, waiting to see what would happen. 

The swarthy man trailed his lips down John’s stomach, stopping at his navel. He pushed John’s legs up, exposing his arse, and slid an oiled finger between his cheeks. Then he kneeled between Grey’s legs and pointed his cock at him. Dark Hair’s deep brown eyes drilled into John’s as he leaned forward, pushing slowly into him. He stopped suddenly. “All right?” His voice was low and husky. 

“Yes, why?”

“You made a noise.”

“I did?” 

“You cried out. I might look it, but I don’t actually get my jollies by hurting people.” 

John bit his lower lip. “You’re not hurting me.”

“No?”

“No.” 

Dark Hair pressed on, until he was all the way inside. Grey closed his eyes. An image of Hector flickered across his memory, then was gone. He opened his eyes again and reached out for the hirsute stranger. Their bodies rocked together, thrusting in and out, back and forth. He had forgotten how good it felt. Dark Hair’s cock touched the magic spot inside him and John moaned. His drunken mind wondered vaguely if he was capable of again reaching the sexual pinnacle he had climbed not half an hour earlier. He wasn’t frightened anymore, and the hardness filling his most intimate of places was bringing him nothing but pleasure, physically, yet he still felt sad. When Dark Hair pulled out and moved away, John didn’t care. He rolled onto his side and surveyed the scene through slitted eyes. 

Red Bow was behind Blondie now, rutting away. Dark Hair moved up behind Red Bow and grabbed him by the hair, playfully tugging. “You belong to me,” he said, and stuck his prick into Red Bow’s arse. Now the three of them were joined together, and Grey had the impression it was not for the first time. If he hadn’t been so drunk, he might not have believed it. He was tempted to join them, but he got the feeling that Dark Hair would not appreciate being taken from behind, and he had no interest in letting Blondie swive him. Instead, he stayed where he was, fondling himself, as he listened to their pants and groans. When they were done, Blondie came over and finished John off with rapid strokes of his hand. 

They drank some more, and Grey passed out.

Dark Hair was on him again when he woke up. He rolled off the bed onto the floor, and grabbed Blondie around the waist. 

“Oh, ho! He’s awake! Or are you?” A delicate hand prodded John’s flaccid penis and it sprang to life. “There you are! My, to be young again. I don’t know how you do it.” The blond man turned away and positioned himself on his hands and knees in front of Grey, who, swaying to one side, got onto his own knees and managed to get his cock into the right hole. 

A minute later, he felt a presence behind him and a large, warm hand on his back. He looked over his shoulder, nearly collapsing in the process. It was Dark Hair, and he was pushing John’s legs apart with one knee, lining himself up. Grey leaned heavily on Blondie as Dark Hair entered him, and the blond man gasped. His dark friend pulled John up and held him by the hips. Each time he pounded into John, John thrust into Blondie. 

Red Bow was lonely. The ribbon had fallen from his thick, wavy locks and they cascaded around his shoulders now. He walked over to Grey and nudged his lips with his cock. Eyes half closed, John accepted the intrusion, sucking as hard as he could without falling over. Such multitasking caused him to lose his rhythm, but Blondie made up for it by pushing back. 

Sandwiched and stuffed, Grey was held up only by the wills of the three men. He’d lost his balance and his desire, and it was only desperation that kept Blondie attached to him. John felt like an animal, or an object. Whatever he was, he didn’t recognise himself in it. His head lolled forward and his body jerked. He wrapped his arms around Blondie’s waist and hung on. 

***

Grey opened his eyes and saw nothing but wall in front of him. He was lying on his side on the bed. He stretched his limbs cautiously, feeling bruised and sore. His knees were scraped and bloody. He rolled over and scanned the room. It was empty, except for his own clothes, which were neatly piled on a chair, and his dagger, which lay on top.


	8. Weightless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Lord John, there was nowhere left to go but down. Could he escape his misery, into a world in which Hector was still alive?

A sudden tapping on the door jolted Grey fully awake. 

“Anyone in there?” a croaky male voice inquired. 

A key turned in the lock and the door swung open before Grey could react. He scooped the pile of clothing off the chair and pressed it to his crotch. 

“Oh! Lord John! I am very sorry to disturb you, my lord.” Caswell grinned, revealing the most gruesome set of teeth that Grey had seen in a long while. “I thought the room was empty.”

John straightened up and attempted to look as dignified as possible while Caswell’s lascivious gaze swept over his naked body, drinking it in bit by bit, and widened as it took in Grey’s red, scraped knees. “Perhaps you should wait longer than half a second before bursting into a locked room,” John frowned. 

Caswell bowed low, stretching his arm out in an exaggeration of sincerity. “Forgive me, my lord. Stay as long as you wish. May I bring you anything to drink or to eat?” 

“What time is it?” John fumbled in his coat pocket, trying to locate his pocket watch. 

“ ‘Tis three o’ the clock, my lord.”

“A bottle of… whatever you’ve got that won’t kill me.” 

Caswell nodded, turned on his heel, and left the room, closing the door behind him. Grey dressed quickly, anxious to avoid displaying himself to the old man again. When the second soft knock sounded, he waited several seconds before opening the door. 

Caswell stood there, bottle in hand. “Thought I’d best come personally, my lord, rather than send someone up with it,” he smirked. If he was disappointed that Grey was now clothed, he didn’t show it, nor would he mention anything about the condition of the lord’s knees. Discretion may be the better part of valour, but it was also how he made his money. He handed the alcohol over, bowed, and went back down the stairs with nothing more than a “My lord.” 

John set the bottle down and sat heavily on the bed, his head in his hands. What had he done? What had been done to him, while he was out cold? They’d left him his dagger, though, and folded his clothes. Aside from his knees, he wasn’t in terrible shape, physically—just a bit sore. It could have been much worse. What if one of those men—just one of them—recognised him and told someone about him? He hadn’t been drunk and stupid enough to tell them his name, had he? He shook his head, shaking his hair out around his shoulders. No, no names had been mentioned. He was sure of that. At least, he thought not. He got up and searched around the room until he found his black hair ribbon on the floor, dusted it off, and tied it as well as he could manage. Then, he picked up the bottle again, donned his hat, and left. Dickie could have his room. 

He headed slowly down Barbican Street, waving away a young man who came out of the bushes to approach him, and hailed the first coach he saw. The streets were dark and foggy as the unkempt hackney rattled over the stones. John fell asleep despite the rough ride, waking only when the driver pulled the horse to a stop and shouted, “East end, sir.” 

Grey paid the man, patted his body to be sure he still had his dagger, and walked off along the river. Behind him, the driver rolled his eyes, expecting that the rumpled but well-dressed young man would no doubt soon end up dead in a ditch. Grey was not utterly devoid of sense. He knew that this area of the city was dangerous at any time of day, let alone in the dim hours just before dawn. Unfortunately, he was too full of self-hatred and self-pity to care. As he walked past various nondescript, decrepit buildings, a handful of figures appeared like apparitions out of the night. 

“Like some comp’ny, guv’ner?” 

The women were filthy, their dresses torn, and one of them stumbled into him. He righted her, but firmly shoved her away. “No, thank you.” 

He walked on, until a large man sitting on a stoop stood up and blocked his path. “Get ya anyfing, guv’ner? Girls? Opium?” He looked Grey over carefully. “Boys?” 

Grey clucked his tongue in disgust, but as the man turned to go, he stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Opium? Where?” 

The shaggy man led him back to the door of the building he’d been sitting in front of. “After you, guv.” 

Inside, the air was smoky and thick, the candles few. John could discern some vaguely human forms curled on rugs or mats on the floor, and stepped over and between them as he made his way into the room. In a corner on a divan, a woman reclined nude, and a man lay on top of her. John looked over his shoulder at the man who’d brought him. “Where is it? I could get laudanum at home and you’re wasting my time.” 

“Not like this, you ain’t. You want to drink it, eat it, or smoke it?”

Grey laughed. “Smoke it? Whatever do you mean?” 

The man shrugged. “There’s a Chinaman hereabouts that showed us how.” He crooked his finger, beckoning Grey to a door at the side of the room. 

***

An hour later, Grey was lying on a stained couch, smoking opium from a strange, long pipe. Two others were in the same room, but he might as well have been alone. Each man was in his own world, sinking deeper into the cushions as his mind floated aloft. 

John closed his eyes and Drumossie Moor appeared before them, rain-swept and blood-soaked. This time when he fell to the ground and gathered Hector in his arms, though, Hector was alive. He smiled at his young love and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. 

“I love you, Johnny,” he whispered. His cold, wet lips pressed against Grey’s cheek, but Hector’s breath was warm. 

“And I love you,” he answered back. 

They weren’t on the battlefield anymore, but in the stone barracks that Hector shared with a Highland family and five other English soldiers. For some reason, everyone else was gone, and the two young men were alone. John stretched out on Hector’s straw mattress, grinning shyly, and Hector climbed on top of him, kissing Grey’s neck and running his fingers through his dark hair. “Are you sure we should?” John panted. 

Hector looked up, his chestnut eyes studying John’s baby blues. His hand was already tugging at the teenager’s breeches. “I’m sure. Are you?” 

John nodded. “You won’t hurt me?” 

“Never. Come here my love, my darling.” The older man’s hand closed around John’s ready prick and his tongue parted John’s lips. They kissed long and deeply and as they kissed, Hector worked Grey’s breeches off and unfastened his own. His slid his hand up under John’s shirt, skimming the taut, slim chest with eager fingertips. 

Eyes closed, John searched blindly in Hector’s open breeches, found his straining erection, and touched it tenderly. “I want to taste you.”

Hector moved up the bed and held himself in front of Grey’s face. His eyes were still closed, but John could sense him there, could smell his musky scent. He kissed the tip of Hector’s cock with open lips. His lover pushed gently until his stiff length was inside John’s mouth, and encouraged him with a light hand on the back of his head. “Yes, that’s it. Now suck.” 

A door slammed somewhere and John opened his eyes. Where was Hector? He took another pull from the pipe and his eyelids drooped again. 

Hector was back on top of him, and John grasped his muscular biceps as the dark-haired soldier pulled himself up between Grey’s legs. John was putty in Hector’s hands as they folded his legs up to his chest. When a finger breeched his opening, he moaned softly. Hector sucked on his earlobe and cooed in his ear, “Promise you’ll always be mine.” Then his cock was pushing in, and John gasped. “Might sting for a second, my love, but I’ll go slow. Just relax.” 

Grey took a deep breath and tried to imagine that his body was made of liquid, weightless, pliable. He was skewered on Hector’s prick, but when he looked into the other man’s eyes, he only felt love. After a few moments, an unfamiliar bliss filled him, and he surrendered completely to it. Hector made love to him slowly and gently, planting small kisses on John’s knees. 

His knees were stinging. Grey reached down to touch the left one and realised that Hector wasn’t there. But surely he had been? He could still feel him there, on him, inside him. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and laid back. 

Hector was stroking him now, his hand moving rapidly as his body continued to thrust. John groaned as he spilled his seed and Hector leaned into him, releasing his own pleasure with a series of quick grunts. He leaned down and kissed John again. “I want to make you feel like that every day for the rest of your life.” 

John’s eyes flew open. His right hand was wet and sticky inside his breeches. Hector was gone again. Black waves washed over him and he let himself be carried under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Angstosaur for the plot idea!


	9. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John is found nearly comatose in the rose garden, Hal comes to his aid.

The butler had sent for Lord Melton, not wanting to disturb the mistress of the house. Hal rushed in the back door so he wouldn’t be seen and rapped urgently on John’s bedroom door. It was opened by the butler himself. Apparently he had thought to be discreet by limiting the number of servants who would see Lord John in his current state. 

“What happened?” Hal asked, walking past the man toward the figure on the bed. 

“The boot-boy found him, my lord. Lying in the rose garden. He told me, and we carried his lordship in here.”

“Carried? Was he that drunk?” Hal looked back at the butler.

“I do not believe alcohol is the culprit, my lord.” 

Hal raised an eyebrow. “Whatever do you mean?”

“It’s not for me to say, sir, but I’ve seen the effects of a night of drinking, and this is… different. His lordship had not been home for days.” 

“Thank you.” Hal dismissed the man and turned back to his brother, who lay on his back in an obviously posed position. He was wearing only a torn shirt, open at the neck, and white breeches stained grey with dirt. His hair hung loose and he smelled like he hadn’t washed in weeks. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open, and he seemed to be mumbling something under his breath. Hal leaned forward but, failing to discern any words, he rested a hand on Grey’s shoulder. 

“John? John, can you hear me?” When he received no answer, he used his hand to turn his brother’s face toward him. “John?” The eyelids fluttered partway open and Hal peered into John’s eyes. His pupils were grossly dilated. “What have you done? What have you taken? If you won’t tell me, I am going to call for a doctor.”

John stirred a little at this, and his tongue came out to lick his bottom lip. 

“Do you want water?” Hal found a glass and pitcher on the washstand. After pouring, he set the glass down on the bedside table and hauled his brother up by the armpits to a half-sitting position. He offered the water to him, but John’s eyes closed again. “Here, drink this,” he said, holding the glass to his lips and tilting it up. Drops of water spilled onto John’s chest, but some of it found its way inside. He swallowed, and Hal removed the glass. 

“S-sorry,” John sputtered. 

“Never mind that. Just tell me what you’ve done.” Hal had never seen him like this, and he was getting more worried by the minute. The exposed flesh on Grey’s chest was standing out in goose pimples. “Are you cold? You look hot.” He held his palm to John’s forehead. “Shall I send for the surgeon?” 

John shook his head. “He’d only give me more.” The voice was scratchy, but it was the first sentence that Hal could understand. 

“More what? What would he give you? Laudanum? Is that it? How much did you take, for God’s sake?” 

“Too much. Straight opium.”

“Last night?” 

“Every night—for last—week.” Grey spoke haltingly. He yawned, gulping in air, and tried to clear his mind enough to explain. “In a—moment—of—lucidity, I—last night—realised…”

Hal frowned. “Realised what? That you had become addicted to the stuff?” John nodded. “Dear God. And that’s why you tried to come home?” 

“Yes.” 

“I think I’d better call someone. You can’t do this alone.” 

“I’m not alone.” Grey tried to smile. 

“Oh, you’ve finally realised that, have you?” Hal looked around for a washcloth, dipped it into the washbasin, and wrung it out. He pulled up a chair and sat beside John’s bed, wiping his face and chest. 

Grey relaxed against the pillows for a couple of minutes, then leaned over the side of the bed without warning and feebly pushed Hal away. Seconds later, he was retching all over the floor. Hal cleaned it up himself as John lowered himself back down to his pillows and lay there, shaking. 

***  
A couple of hours later, Hal slipped out for a bowl of broth for his brother. When he returned, what he saw startled him. John was pacing around the room, wringing his hands. As soon as he noticed Hal, he pounced, nearly dumping the hot soup down Melton’s front. 

“I believe I am cured, brother dear! I thank you so much for your assistance. Now if you would be so kind as to locate a coat for me—I seem to have misplaced mine—I will just go take a restorative walk by myself, gather my thoughts.” His eyes were wild. 

Hal set down the bowl and moved quickly to block the door. “No, Johnny, that’s not a good idea. You need to rest.” 

“Stand aside and let me out, Melton.” Grey’s voice had turned to ice. 

“I will not. I told you this day might come, but you just laughed. Now it has come true. You are not capable of looking out for yourself, so I must do it for you.”

“You’re going to lock me in my room?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

The two men stared at each other, traces of their father’s features—and his stubbornness—showing on their faces. Grey lunged at Hal, his fists clenched, but in his weakened condition, Hal easily shoved him aside. 

“I am sorry, John, but this is necessary. You will understand, when it’s all over.” 

“Understand??” John shouted. “YOU do not understand! I am in pain, Hal. So much pain. Please… if you only knew… I just need a bit to get over this.” 

Hal braced himself against the door. “Lower your voice, John. Do you want Mother to hear you begging for opium like a commoner?” 

Grey crumpled to the floor and held his head in his hands. 

Hal tried for a kinder tone. “You didn’t want me to send for someone because you didn’t want to be given any more. Do you remember telling me that?” 

John didn’t answer, but only made a noise like a dying kitten. Hal got down to the floor with him and put his arms around him, British masculinity be damned.

“I won’t leave you, Johnny. We’ll get through this. Together.”


	10. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles against his addiction and examines his life.

The next 24 hours were a nightmare for the Grey brothers. Hal came and went, trying not to arouse Benedicta’s suspicions. Once, she caught him in the hallway and grabbed him by the arm. 

“What’s going on, Hal? Where’s John?” 

“He’s home safe, don’t worry. Just sleeping off a late night. I doubt if you’ll see him at dinner.” He avoided his mother’s eyes. 

“What are we going to do about him? Where are you going? I thought you were as concerned about him as I.” She stood on her toes to look into his face. 

“I am concerned, Mother. And I’m looking out for him. Truly. I’ve made sure he’ll not be going out again, and he knows he’s to do nothing but rest and regain his strength.” 

Alarmed, she raised an eyebrow at this. “Regain his strength? Is he really doing so poorly?”

“No, no. I just mean his moral strength. To give up the drinking and the wandering at all hours, you know.” Hal patted Benedicta’s arm soothingly. 

“I’ll bring him something to eat,” she said, turning to go. 

Hal felt his heart jump. He tightened his grip on her arm. “He’s sleeping, Mother. Don’t wake him. Really, I would just leave him alone, if I were you. He’s ashamed enough with just me poking my nose into his business. You and I may think of him as a boy, but he is a grown man, after all. He doesn’t want his mother fussing over him like he’s still in nappies.” 

She frowned, thinking. After a pause, she looked up at her son. “All right. I suppose I should leave him to sort it out in his own way. You will tell him I’m thinking of him, won’t you?” 

“Of course.” Inwardly, Hal sighed with relief. “I’ll pop by later to check on him. It’s all firmly in hand, trust me.” He kissed her on the cheek and left the house, wishing he had no responsibilities to keep him from tending to his brother. 

***

In his room, John fiddled with the doorknob, trying to open it but finally giving up. Sweat was pouring from his forehead and dripping from his chin onto his already-soaked shirt. He wiped his sleeve across his face and sat down on the bed. He was still trembling, but the clenching pain in his guts had at least ceased for the time being. He thanked God that he had only abused his body with the vile stuff for a week. He couldn’t imagine how anyone who’d been addicted for months—or years—could possibly survive this. 

He resented Hal for locking him up like a child, yet he understood why it was necessary. He probably would have done the same, himself, had the roles been reversed. You’ve been through battles, seen men die—killed men—surely you can get through this, he told himself. But he’d never felt so insecure before—so out of control. As he sat, shivering yet perspiring, he distracted himself from the physical symptoms by going over his recent behaviour in his mind. 

As drunk as he’d been, he could remember how he’d felt that night at Lavender House: lost, empty, sick. He had put himself at risk, given up control to a band of anonymous Marys—and even the memory of it terrified him. He was surprised they hadn’t stolen his possessions, but then why should he be surprised? He wouldn’t steal another man’s things, especially not his weapon, and wasn’t he a Mary, too? He’d had talks with Hector about it. About whether lying with a woman might change his nature, make him normal again. 

“You’ve never been normal!” Hector had laughed. “Neither have I. Don’t worry about it, Johnny.” 

“But I have lain with a woman. Two of them, in fact.” John had glared at his lover, daring him to deny it. 

Hector had not been surprised, however. “At a brothel? So have I. How old were you, the first time?” 

“Fourteen. I… I was having thoughts…”

Hector had laid his hand on Grey’s shoulder. “About whom?” 

John had blushed. “About our groom. I thought that if I lay with a woman, the thoughts would go away.” 

“And did they?” 

“Obviously not!” 

Hector had squeezed the younger man’s shoulder gently. “Johnny, you were born this way, and nothing you do will change it. You need to accept yourself. Love yourself. As I do.” He’d kissed him then, and from that moment on, Grey had entertained no more notions of trying to change who he was. He was not ashamed. He was not even ashamed, now, of taking on more than one man at once. It was more the way he did it, and why, that he was ashamed of. 

He clutched his stomach as a sudden cramp seized him. Would he need the basin or the bedpan this time? Luckily, the feeling subsided almost as soon as it had begun. He was freezing, though, teeth chattering loudly as he looked around the room for his banyan. He threw it on over his clothes and tied it snugly, wrapping his arms around himself in a one-person hug. Hal had embraced him, for the first time since their father had died. He could still feel those strong arms around him and wished his brother was still there with him. Hal had work to do, though, and a family of his own to care for. He couldn’t sit here forever with a man who had deliberately destroyed himself. 

I’ll make you proud of me, Hal, John thought, turning to gaze out the window. In the same moment, he thought, “Can I fit through that window?” 

***

When Hal returned late that night and unlocked Grey’s door, he found John lying on the floor under a pile of blankets. He hurried over to him and was relieved to hear the steady breaths of a deep sleep. John’s arm was extended outside the blankets, his hand curled loosely around something. Hal took a closer look. It was a ring—Hector’s ring. He knew his brother had worn it ever since Hector’s death. If it could somehow give him strength now, Hal would not mock him for it. There were things he didn’t understand and probably never would, but Hal knew all he needed to know. He knew he loved his brother. 

“John?” He shook the thin shoulder gently. “John, why are you sleeping on the floor?” 

Grey awoke and sat up, quickly slipping the ring onto his finger and rubbing his eyes blearily. He yawned and stretched out his sore limbs. “The bed was soaked. It was disgusting.” 

Hal smiled. “Are you feeling any better yet?” 

“I think so. I think I can do this.” He looked into Hal’s eyes as Melton pulled him up. “Thank you for coming back.” 

Hal’s eyes watered against his will and he cleared his throat gruffly. “Why ever would you think that I wouldn’t? You’re a Grey, aren’t you?” 

The End


End file.
